Page 6 of The Witch is Back

She steeled herself. Allowed the devil a free pass. “It goes with my outfit.”

He blinked.

She counted it as a victory. She pushed ahead. “It’s been a long time.”

A pause. “I’ve been traveling.”

“My postcards must have gotten lost.” The words may have been quiet, but they had bite.

“Emmaline...” He floundered, obviously caught off guard. “Weren’t we friends once?” Something moved behind his eyes as the question lay in the air.

By how fast her heart was beating, blood should have been pulsing out of the cut. Friends? If they had been, wouldn’t she have rated some kind of goodbye, or at least a warning? That he’d been about to totally screw her over?

She fumbled with the Band-Aid, having already cleaned the cut. Normally she’d have used magic but having cut off her own nose, she gritted her teeth and soldiered on until the cut was sealed.

“Friends?” It was all she could say without breaking into a wild laugh. Brown strands of hair fell in front of her eyes, obscuring her vision. She didn’t move to tuck them back, preferring the distorted image of him.

His frown found purchase for a second this time before smoothing away to another practiced smile. “Yeah. I don’t think I have a single childhood memory without you in it. And that includes the time you accidentally lit Clarissa’s rose garden on fire, remember that?” His grin invited her to come with him down memory lane.

Considering her punishment had included going without food for a day, while working on fire magic for the entire twenty-four hours, she resisted.

“What are you doing here, Bastian?” she repeated, cursing the wobble in her voice. Cursing that she’d broken down and asked.

They’d had a binding engagement contract, written by her father and signed by his mother, as was traditional. Emmaline Bluewater and Sebastian Truenote were meant to get married, in the time from dawn on her twenty-first birthday to the eve of her twenty-fifth. Four years to get the job done. To see it through. To say “I do.”

But he’d decided to say “I don’t,” go off and travel the world, find himself—or some such BS. He’d left in the middle of the night, no warning, no message to anyone but his parents the night of her twenty-first. I’m sorry, but I can’t marry Emmaline. Plain words that said everything.

While she’d been starry-eyed as a teenager and would have happily taken Bastian’s hands and made vows, Emma would now sooner get up in front of a crowd of people, in her underwear, and recite the entire Fifty Shades of Grey book than slip his ring on her finger.

If Bastian thought he could come back and smile at her and she’d let the past years of humiliation slide, he was dead wrong.

“I’m very busy. You need to go.”

She fought the urge to shift under his stare. Time stretched like overchewed gum, only the background noise of the bar masking the thump of her anxious heartbeat.

“Yes,” he said finally with slow deliberation. She could almost hear the cogs whirring as his brain worked. “You are. I shouldn’t have come in the middle of a workday.” This time his smile was wide and open and charming as ever. It could have melted a chocolate bar. Even if it was as fake as a glamour spell. “We can catch up at the party.”

He was already moving to the door before she worked her brain around his sentence. “What—what party?”

“The party. You didn’t hear?” He reached down and scratched Chester, the traitor’s hopes fixed on another magical dog treat. “My parents are throwing me a welcome home party. I know,” he added as if she’d protested, “but they haven’t seen me in a while and it’s important to them.”

“You were gone a long time. They missed you.”

There it was again, the hint of darkness that was instantly swept away when he cleared his throat. “It’ll be sociable. Food, drink. You’re busy now, so we can talk then.”

“Bastian—”

“I’m surprised your mom hasn’t let you know. Clarissa was always on top of those things.” He patted Chester once more. “It’s tomorrow night. Black tie, as always, at the Truenote manor. They’ll expect us to start off the dancing, so wear comfortable shoes.”

“Bastian—” she tried again, growing frantic at what he was describing. Goddess, to avoid that, she’d tie him to a chair here and force the reunion. Better they do it now than in front of all witch society. But as he paused to hear her speak, her tongue went thick. “I can’t...” She fought for words, any words. “I don’t...” Helplessly, she stared at him.

“Hey.” His tone gentled and for one minute, he looked like her Bastian. The young man who’d made excuses to get her out of dancing or brushed her hair back away from her face as if he cared. The reminder stung like a thousand cuts, bitterness the salt that kept them open. “I know you’re not sold on these things, but we’ll dance, do our duty and then find a spot in the garden.” A note of something tinted his voice as he added, “Like we always did.”

Like we always did. Because he expected she would just fall at his feet like an adoring girl?

It took her a moment to realize the grinding sound came from her teeth.

She unlocked her jaw. She didn’t want to talk to him or be around him and the confusing storm of emotion he unearthed. But if his parents were throwing a ball, he was right. Clarissa would be calling and would insist on Emma attending. Maybe it would be better to put off their “reunion.” Maybe she’d be able to sort out what to say, how to act.

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